Smoky Mountain Setup

by Paula Graves

  She thought about the men and women who’d helped them figure out the logistics of their trip to Bryson City. She would trust her life to any of them. Perhaps more to the point, she’d trust Landry’s life to any of them. “I did. I do.”

  “So they’re the ones we contact. But I don’t want to go through the phone system at The Gates or their cell phones. If there is a leaker at your agency, they might have access to anything that could be connected directly to the company. Do you have other ways to contact them?”

  She had home phone numbers for most of them in the address-book app in her phone, coded in case someone ever managed to sneak a peek at the saved information. “I do.”

  “Good. We can call them when we get our plans finalized. Tell them how they can help.” He gave her hip a little slap. “As tempting as it is to cuddle here with you on the sofa, we have to work out a lot of logistics.”

  She sighed and slid out of his grasp, settling on the sofa next to him. “Starting with figuring out if Dallas Cole is still with the FBI.”

  * * *

  ICE CRUSTED ON the banks of the Potomac, an incongruous contrast with the cloud-streaked brilliance of the January sunset, reflected in all its fiery glory in the glassy surface of the river. The Jefferson Memorial was little more than a murky silhouette in the distance, a reminder that for all the beauty of its natural surroundings, Washington, DC, was a city built on power. Powerful men, powerful institutions, powerful ambition and powerful greed.

  He had seen it all during his time in the capital. Idealism had died a million deaths on the altar of compromise. Good intentions soon became swallowed by desperation to score an elusive win at any cost.

  Governing a free country could be a very nasty business, indeed.

  He sighed and spoke into the phone. “When did you get the call?”

  “Ten minutes ago.” The voice on the other line was deep and well modulated, though even if he hadn’t known the speaker already, he’d have been able to detect the hint of eastern Kentucky in the man’s inflections.

  Dallas Cole had tried to leave coal country behind him, but there were things a man couldn’t escape no matter how hard he tried.

  “Why you?”

  “He said he was giving me a second chance to get it right.” Cole’s voice betrayed a touch of guilt, a hint of uncertainty.

  “Get it right?”

  “He said the last time he called, he had trusted me to do as he asked, and I failed.”

  “And what did he ask?”

  “For me to take the message directly to you instead of going through channels.”

  Assistant Director Philip Crandall didn’t speak right away as he watched an egret rise from the water and take flight, its wings flapping slowly as it glided across the flaming sky.

  “Did I do the wrong thing?” Cole asked as the silence extended.

  “Of course not,” Crandall said. “You made the right call, Mr. Cole. I’ll take care of it. Please don’t discuss this call with anyone else.”

  He hung up the phone and took a couple of deep breaths. In and out, cleansing the tension from his neck and shoulders.

  Finally. Finally.

  He’d begun to think he’d never find a way to end the nightmare.

  * * *

  SON OF A BITCH.

  Son of a bitch!

  “What have I done?” Dallas Cole met his own gaze in the reflective glass of his office window. His office in the J. Edgar Hoover Building was little more than a closet with a single window he thanked his stars for every day, considering he’d started out in an even smaller closet without a window in sight. Support staff might be a vital cog in the FBI machine, but cogs didn’t get corner offices and great views of— Well, okay, not many people at that ugly behemoth of a building had great views, period, despite FBI headquarters taking up prime property a hop, skip and a jump from the White House and other DC landmarks.

  “Did you say something, Cole?”

  The lilting female voice drew his mind out of self-imposed chaos and his gaze to the door. Michelle Matsumara, his supervisor, stood in the open doorway, neat and pretty in her trim blue suit.

  “Talking to myself again, boss.” He flashed a sheepish smile, feeling sick. Matsumara just gave a delicate shrug and continued down the hall.

  He pressed his face into his hands. To say he’d been shocked by the phone call from a man claiming to be Cade Landry was an understatement of epic proportions. He’d spent the past year utterly certain Landry was dead and buried in some deep, dark hollow in the southern Appalachians.

  Cole was from Harlan County, Kentucky. He knew all about deep, dark hollows.

  Landry hadn’t answered any of his questions, just told him to get it right this time. “Tell AD Crandall where he can meet me. And tell him I want him to come alone.”

  This time Cole had done as Landry asked. Bypassed Matsumara and her superior, Kilpatrick, and gone directly to Crandall, even though he knew, gut-deep, that both Matsumara and Kilpatrick were honest, trustworthy public servants—as good as they came, especially in a place like the capital.

  After his phone call with the assistant director, Cole didn’t think he could say the same of Crandall.

  It hadn’t been anything Crandall had said. His response had been everything anyone could have expected—an expression of concern about the contact from Cade Landry, reassurance that he’d done the right thing by calling him directly and, of course, an admonition to keep the call to himself.

  But there’d been something else in Crandall’s voice. Something as deep and dark as any hollows a man could find in the hills of Kentucky.

  Cole looked at his office phone, his mind reeling. The phone Landry had used to make the call had apparently been equipped with number blocking, for the phone display had been blank. It wasn’t likely redial would work, he thought, but he picked up the phone and tried it anyway.

  Nothing happened.

  Damn it, Landry. How could he warn the man about Crandall?

  Would Landry even believe him? Nothing Crandall had said would strike anyone as suspicious. Hell, if Cole hadn’t heard the man himself, he wouldn’t have given a second thought to Crandall’s responses.

  Never ignore your instincts, boy. His grandmother’s voice rang in his mind. Leona Halloran was a big believer in hunches and listening to the still, small voice in a person’s head. “It’s the warnin’ voice of angels, Dallas. They’re tellin’ you, watch out! There’s trouble ahead.”

  He pulled out his cell phone and stared at the screen, thinking about his options. Who might know how to reach Landry after all this time?

  The answer hit him like a gut punch. Of course.

  He pulled up a search application on his phone and found the number he was looking for. As he started to dial it, the hair on the back of his neck rose, prickling the skin as if a cool finger had traced a path across the flesh.

  Warning voices of angels, he thought, and shoved the phone back in his pocket. It was almost six o’clock on a Friday. Like most of the employees who worked in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, he didn’t exactly watch the clock. But he’d worry about trying to impress management another day. He had a phone call to make.

  And not from a phone that could be connected to him.

  * * *

  “DO YOU THINK he went straight to Crandall this time?”

  Landry looked up at the sound of Olivia’s voice. She stood in the open doorway of his bedroom, dressed for bed in a sleeveless T-shirt—the Atlanta Braves this time instead of Alabama. Her shorts might have hit midthigh on a shorter woman, but Olivia was a statuesque Amazon goddess, and there was enough skin visible to inspire some of his favorite fantasies.

  “I have no idea,” he admitted, dragging his mind back to business. “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow
. Are Quinn and the others set for tomorrow?”

  She nodded. “All set.”

  He patted the edge of the bed, well aware that he was wearing nothing beneath the sheet covering his lower half. He could tell by the flicker of awareness in her blue eyes that she was aware, as well.

  But she crossed slowly to the bed and sat down beside him, facing him. Slowly, she reached out and pressed her palm against the center of his bare chest. “I guess this could be it. Freedom or—” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed the rest of the thought.

  “I have to believe it’s going to be a win. I think we’ve both earned one, don’t you?”

  Her fingers brushed over his chest muscles, lightly tracing the contours and sending delicious shudders down his spine. “I’m not sure wins can be earned. Not in a world this ruthless.”

  He curved his palm around her hip and saw, with visceral pleasure, the way her eyelids flickered at his touch. He could still affect her. Still elicit a physical response, deliver on the unspoken promise of pleasure.

  “So it’s all luck?” he asked in a growl, pressing his thumb against a point just below her hip bone that he knew could make her squirm.

  Her soft gasp sent a jolt of raw desire racing straight to his core.

  “Landry—” Her response ended on a soft groan as he flicked his thumb across the sensitive point again.

  When he reached for her, she came willingly, her long limbs tangling with his. Her hips settled flush with his, and he was the one who groaned as his arousal amplified a thousandfold.

  “I want you,” he whispered against her throat.

  She arched her neck as he flicked his tongue against the tendon just below her jaw. “You don’t say.”

  Cupping her bottom, he positioned her more snugly over his sex. “Need proof?”

  Her laugh was like cello music, deep and fluid. She stretched out, her body sleek against his, and he felt his heart begin to pound. “I was willing to take it on faith,” she said, “but if you insist.”

  Suddenly, her hips began to vibrate against his, sending shock waves through his whole nervous system. In the middle of lowering her mouth to his, Olivia stopped short and growled an impressively profane word.

  Pulling back until she straddled his thighs, she pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her shorts and glared at the display.

  “Really, Quinn?” she snarled at the offending device.

  “His sense of timing is really something to behold,” Landry murmured, trying to get his breathing back under control.

  She answered the phone in a low, hostile voice. “What?”

  Landry watched her expression shift from frustration to puzzlement. “Really. He called the agency?”

  “What is it?” Landry asked.

  “Hold on. I’m putting this on speaker so Landry can hear.” She pulled the phone away from her ear and tapped the screen.

  A moment later Quinn’s voice came over the phone. “Cole called around six thirty, asking for you. We told him you were gone for the day and he flat out asked if you were with Landry.”

  Olivia arched her eyebrows at Landry. “And you responded how?”

  “We told him we’d make sure you got his message.”

  “And did he leave one?”

  “No. But we were able to get a trace on the number he was calling from. It’s a gym not far from the National Mall. We haven’t dug any deeper, but we’d probably find out that Cole is a member there.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Landry disagreed. “If he bothered to use a phone that doesn’t belong to him, he’d use a number that isn’t easily traced back to him. What we need to do is call him back on his cell phone.”

  “You think he’d answer?” Quinn asked.

  “I think he’d have to chance it,” Olivia said. “He called me for a reason. I don’t think it’s to catch up on my life these days.”

  “He thinks you know how to reach me,” Landry said.

  “He called for a reason. We need to find out what it is.” She shifted until she was sitting on the bed instead of his thighs. Missing her warmth immediately, he stifled a sigh.

  “Well, give it a try and call me back.” Quinn hung up the phone.

  Olivia edged closer to him on the bed until her hip was warm against his, as if she needed to be close to him as much as he needed to be close to her. “You have his number handy?”

  Landry had it memorized. It had been the last phone number he’d dialed before the BRI had ambushed him, and he’d spent a good bit of his captivity repeating the number to himself to keep from thinking about his predicament.

  He rattled it off to Olivia, who arched her eyebrows at his quick reply. But she didn’t say anything as she dialed the number and put the phone on speaker so he could hear the call.

  The phone rang four times before Dallas Cole’s voice answered with a cautious “Hello?”

  “You called,” Olivia said bluntly.

  “Right. I can’t believe you actually called me back.”

  “Why did you call?” she asked, not bothering to hide her impatience. Olivia could be a sweet, considerate woman, but there were times when she could intimidate a bull moose. This was one of those times.

  “Cade Landry called me.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s with you, isn’t he? I knew he would be.”

  “Why did you call back?”

  “I did what he asked this time. I bypassed Matsumara and Kilpatrick and went straight to AD Crandall.”

  Olivia darted a look at Landry, clearly surprised. “What did he say?”

  “He thanked me for telling him and said he’d handle everything as you asked.”

  “Well, that’s good, then.” Olivia frowned at Landry, clearly disappointed that Cole hadn’t reacted as they’d thought he would. He wasn’t happy himself. Now they’d have to figure out another plan—

  “No, it’s not.” Cole’s blunt tone interrupted Landry’s thoughts. His accent, which usually was carefully neutral, held a strong hint of the Appalachian backwoods. “You and Landry thought I’d go through channels again, didn’t you? That’s why he called me again, even though the last time he came to me for help, he ended up in a hell of a tangle.”

  “Yes,” Landry said.

  “I’m sorry about that, man. You told me what to do, but I did it my way and you ended up paying for it. So this time, I did it your way. But Crandall’s not what you think. He’s not what I thought, either.”

  “But you said he agreed to handle it.”

  “He did. But I don’t think he’s going to—” Cole’s words cut off on a soft expletive.

  “What?” Olivia prodded.

  “I’ve picked up a tail. At least I hope it’s just a tail.” His voice rose a notch, tight with tension. “Two sets of headlights, coming up fast.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Driving south on 231, north of Ruckersville. Thought I should get out of town for the weekend— Son of a bitch!” His words were almost drowned out by the squeal of tires audible over the phone line.

  Then the call cut off.

  Olivia stared at Landry. “What just happened?”

  Feeling sick, he reached for his phone. “I think Cole just got run off the road.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mulberry Creek Diner wasn’t nearly as picturesque as its name, but it offered Alexander Quinn the three things he was looking for in a staging point—lots of strong, hot coffee, free Wi-Fi and a large private room where eight men and four women could meet in relative privacy to discuss their plans to set a trap for a traitor.

  “Still nothing from the Virginia State Police,” Sutton Calhoun informed them after getting off the phone with his wife. “Ivy has a friend there who’s promised to keep h
er informed if they get any accident reports from the Ruckersville area, but nobody’s reported anything so far.”

  Almost twenty-four hours had passed since Dallas Cole’s phone call had come to an abrupt end, and still no word about his whereabouts. Quinn didn’t have a good feeling about Cole’s chances for survival, but he was the FBI’s problem. Quinn had his own agents to worry about.

  “Maybe they weren’t intending to kill him,” Landry muttered. He was sitting near the end of the table, his chair pulled close to Olivia’s, as if he didn’t want to get too far away from her.

  “Landry thinks someone might have taken him captive to question him,” Olivia explained.

  “Because that’s what happened to you?” Nick Darcy asked. He sat to Quinn’s left, McKenna Rigsby on his other side.

  “Cole told me he didn’t trust Crandall. He said something about their conversation made him feel really uneasy.” Landry turned his coffee cup in circles in front of him. “I figure if a graphic designer’s warning bells were going off during that conversation, an assistant director of the FBI might have had some suspicions, too.”

  “I wish there was a way to track Crandall. See if he’s really on his way or if this is another wild-goose chase,” Rigsby said.

  “I’m working on that,” Quinn said vaguely. Nobody asked him to elaborate. He wouldn’t have done so if they had. He might not be in the spy business anymore, but he still knew what “need to know” meant. “I’m not sure it matters right now if Crandall shows up himself. To be honest, it’s not that likely. You don’t get to be an assistant director of the FBI if you do your own dirty work.”

  “Then what are we doing here?” Darcy asked, his dark eyes snapping up to meet Quinn’s. “What do we think is going to happen?”

  “We’re setting a trap,” Rigsby said.

  “A trap Crandall’s probably already seen through if he’s sent people after Dallas Cole,” Olivia muttered.

  Adam Brand took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “We still run with our plan, in case that’s where Crandall wants to make his stand.”